The shirt exposed her shoulders and arms, and the fabric was so thin and fine that it seemed to cup her breasts. He could even see the faint outlines of her nipples just beneath.
And the underpants, if that was what they were, rode so high on her long legs that they exposed most of her gently rounded hips, covering only that sweet feminine delta she had never let him see nor touch.
Matthew groaned. Christ! His body was hard for her, hard and hot and aching with need. He longed to strip off those bits of cotton and bury himself in her. To watch her face as her eyes flew open and she realized what was happening...
"No!"
The cry rasped from his throat and he stumbled back from the bed, his chest heaving with the harsh labor of his breath.
Catherine had made a fool of him. She had ruined his name, turned him into a traitor. She had been the very instrument of his death.
But he would not let her turn him into a beast.
He would take his vengeance but he would do it honorably, as he had planned. Not like this.
Never like this.
He drew a shaky breath as he looked down at her again. And yet—and yet, the need to touch her was overpowering.
Moments slipped by. Then, slowly, he reached out his hand and stroked it over the black silk of her hair.
It felt so good to touch her.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed and held his breath as he let his fingers drift the length of her throat. Her skin was warm and firm to the touch; the scent of soap and roses and woman floated to his nostrils and he drew it deep into his lungs.
Catherine sighed. Two vertical lines appeared between her dark, winged brows but they vanished almost immediately.
"Cat," he heard himself whisper. "Cat..."
His touch grew bolder. His hand moved lightly over her breast, feeling the weight of it, and the roundness. His thumb moved across the rise of her nipple. She stirred in her sleep; her flesh surged and hardened and pressed against his palm.
He clenched his teeth and groaned.
Both his hands were on her now, cupping her breasts, shaping them to his touch.
"Catherine," he said thickly.
A whimper caught in her throat. Her lips parted on the softest of sighs.
His hands went to her hips, stroked gently down her thighs. He knew what she was, a liar and a Jezebel, but what had that to do with desire?
"Cat," he said, and he lowered his head to hers. His mouth settled lightly against hers in the softest of kisses.
She was sweet. So sweet. Could he have forgotten the taste of her? He must have, for surely he could not recall her tasting like this. Her lips reminded him of summer rain and spring breezes, of the first cool touch of snow.
Her arms rose, twined around his neck. Her lips parted more fully under the hardening pressure of his. She whispered something in her sleep.
Yes, she was saying, oh yes...
Matthew shot to his feet.
What was he doing?
She was a lying, scheming bitch. Was she a sorceress, as well? Was she trying to cast a spell on him, even now?
His face took on the coldness of stone as he marched to the doorway. Hell, he thought, and he turned and looked at the sleeping woman in the bed.
"Catherine," he said, his voice as chill as the air that suddenly surrounded him. "Catherine, look at me."